


Convergence

by starriestofgates



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starriestofgates/pseuds/starriestofgates
Summary: Ordinarily he enjoyed a good walk, but today he found himself wishing that Combeferre lived just a little closer to his own rooms. But cold weather or not, it had become something of a routine with the two of them to visit each other’s rooms on Saturday afternoons, to share books and dinner and conversation, and Combeferre had come to him last week, so it was only fair.Prouvaire and Combeferre find that they've grown closer than they realized.





	1. Prouvaire

**Author's Note:**

> Posted (ch. 1) for Barricade Day 2019, but no barricades here, just fluff.

Gray clouds scudded along overhead and a thin, cutting wind went whirling up the street, disturbing the light dusting of snow that lay scattered across the cobblestones. Jean Prouvaire shivered slightly as the breeze snaked a cold tendril down his collar, pulling his coat up more tightly around his neck. Ordinarily he enjoyed a good walk, but today he found himself wishing that Combeferre lived just a _little_ closer to his own rooms. But cold weather or not, it had become something of a routine with the two of them to visit each other’s rooms on Saturday afternoons, to share books and dinner and conversation, and Combeferre had come to him last week, so it was only fair.

Combeferre greeted Prouvaire with a smile and an inquiry as to whether he had read the essay on freedom of the will that Combeferre had recommended last week. He had, and they wrangled pleasantly over the points raised by the article while Combeferre made soup and Prouvaire poked around among the rock and mineral specimens currently taking up much of the surface of Combeferre’s desk. The last time he had been there, the desktop had featured anatomical specimens instead. Although the stones he was now investigating offered significantly less invitation to contemplate the ineffable nature of human mortality, Prouvaire had to admit that they also offered significantly less insult to his nose.

The soup was finished, and they shared it, the conversation turning from philosophical questions to a discussion of the play Combeferre had attended two nights prior. Prouvaire, who had seen it three weeks previously and had been urging his friend to go ever since, was delighted to find several of his own opinions on the plot and acting shared, and almost as delighted to argue about the areas on which they differed.

“Oh!” Combeferre interrupted himself in the middle of explaining to a mildly indignant Prouvaire why he felt that the lead actress had not carried a particular scene as well as she could have done. “I forgot, I found that novel you were interested in. I hadn’t loaned it out after all; it had fallen behind the other books on the shelf.” He hopped up from the table and went over to one of the bookshelves. Prouvaire gathered the dishes and put them in the dishpan---“Thanks,” said Combeferre---took the novel, and sprawled inelegantly and happily on the divan, while Combeferre settled himself in the armchair set at right angles to it and opened a treatise on geology. They had developed a habit, at these times, of alternating reading with conversation. Prouvaire would have found this deeply irritating had anyone else tried it. To be spoken to, intruded on, while deep in a book, was one of his least favorite things. But all the summer and autumn and into the beginning of winter in which they now found themselves, he had gradually begun accepting it from Combeferre alone until now it bothered him not at all. It had long ceased to feel like an intrusion and had become a way in which Prouvaire felt that they communicated the closeness into which they had grown.

The chiming of the clock on the mantle, in a stretch of quiet, startled both of them. December brought the darkness early, and Combeferre had lit the lamp not long after they began to read. They had not noticed the progression of the hours. “Ten o’clock!” said Prouvaire in surprise. “I had not meant to stay so late.”

“These evenings always do go by too soon,” Combeferre said, smiling.

As Prouvaire collected his outerwear, Combeferre went to the window and pulled the curtains open. “Hmm,” he said, peering out into the darkness.

“Hmm?” Prouvaire was trying to remember where he had put his gloves.

“It looks a bit fierce outside.”

Prouvaire discovered the gloves in the pocket of his overcoat and extracted them triumphantly. “Is it snowing?” he said.

“Quite a lot, actually. Look.”

Prouvaire padded over and looked. The lamps were lit in the street below, but there was not much street to be seen. It was thickly covered and sparkling in the lamplight, and the air was filled with whirling whiteness. “Hmm,” Prouvaire said.

“My sentiments exactly.” Combeferre rubbed his chin. “It might be a good idea for you to stay the night here. It does not look very, ah, hospitable outside.” He returned to his chair and picked up his geology treatise again.

“I suppose you are right.” Prouvaire tossed his outer garments in the general direction of the trunk on which he had originally draped them. “Hopefully there will be less weather in the morning, and your bed was certainly big enough for two the last time I stayed over.” The last time he had stayed over, they had both been drinking, and Prouvaire, who tended to be a very affectionate drunk, had wakened the following morning to find himself practically on top of Combeferre, hugging his arm. He chuckled slightly at the memory and glanced over at Combeferre, expecting to find his amusement shared, but Combeferre was staring down at the book in his lap, looking, Prouvaire was surprised to note, vaguely uncomfortable. He made no reply, and after a moment Prouvaire went back to the divan and took up his novel again.

He made a few attempts to resume the intermittent conversation, but Combeferre responded to his sallies only in short phrases and kept his eyes fixed on the page in front of him. Combeferre seems to have grown a bit uneasy, Prouvaire thought. He will not look at me. Why? Aloud he asked, “Is everything all right?” Combeferre jumped slightly. “Yes,” he answered tardily, flushing. That is a lie, Prouvaire thought. But Combeferre never tells lies. He hesitated, then said “Forgive me, but you seem a bit tense. Are you certain it is not a problem for me to stay here tonight?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Combeferre answered. “Why would it be?” But his voice carried a standoffish note that troubled Prouvaire. “Well,” he said. “Only you are twitching a bit, and there is a certain tone in your voice. Have I done or said something to upset you?”

“It is nothing for you to worry about. Read your book.”

Prouvaire felt the sting of the brush-off as if Combeferre had lightly slapped him. Hurt, and wanting real reassurance, he pressed on, despite knowing underneath that it was unwise, “But if I---”

“Let it be,” Combeferre interrupted him brusquely, and his voice this time held a real edge.

A baffled soreness expanded in Prouvaire’s chest. He attempted to return to his novel, but he felt his face burning and knew he would not be able to focus on the story. Abruptly he sat up straight, slapping the covers loudly shut. He got up off the divan and stalked over to the door, where he sat down on the floor and grabbed his boots.

“What are you doing?” demanded Combeferre in a tone of mild alarm.

“I am very sorry,” Prouvaire said stiffly from the floor, “for having offended you, and if you do not wish to discuss it, you are within your rights not to do so, but as I do not wish to upset you any further, I am going _home_.” He yanked at a boot crossly.

“For heaven’s sake, Prouvaire. You cannot walk home in this weather.”

“I can do a great many things,” Prouvaire informed him, one boot off and one boot on, “and I do not require your permission for any of them. Anyway, there may be a fiacre or so that I can hire.”

“It is vanishingly unlikely that there will be such…” Combeferre began, then sighed. He rose and came a few paces towards Prouvaire, then stopped. “I assure you,” he said, “that you have done nothing wrong. It is only…something I was thinking of for a moment, that caused me to be sharp. I should not have snapped at you. I am sorry.”

Combeferre looked both anxious and genuinely penitent. Prouvaire felt all at once extraordinarily affectionate towards him, and also slightly embarrassed about his outburst. “Oh, well,” he mumbled, tugging at the heel of his boot. “If you are quite sure it’s all right?”

“Yes, quite. Please don’t go running out into the snow on my behalf.” The corner of Combeferre’s mouth quirked upwards slightly in a way Prouvaire had seen dozens of times but which he suddenly found extremely charming. He smiled fondly up at his friend and said, “Then I will sleep _chez toi_ tonight after all.” Combeferre’s mouth un-quirked and a peculiar expression crossed his face. He nodded and turned hastily back towards his chair as Prouvaire rose from the floor.

Prouvaire re-ensconced himself on the divan, this time curled up into the corner near Combeferre’s chair. For some reason he could not articulate, he felt a desire to be physically near him. Sudden, impulsive desires to do arbitrary things were not an uncommon experience for Prouvaire, and he generally indulged them if they did not seem likely to cause trouble. He did not question this one any more than he usually did, merely accepted it. Soon he was lost in the pages of his novel again. The heroine was the most absurdly melodramatic fictional character Prouvaire had ever encountered, and her adventures wildly improbable. It was an enchanting tome, and it rendered him quite insensible to his surroundings until the heroine’s father said something that was so very Combeferre-esque that it propelled him back to reality.

Intending to read the passage aloud to Combeferre and demand of him, isn’t that exactly the kind of thing you always say, Prouvaire looked over at his friend. He was surprised to see that Combeferre had not apparently returned to the world of geology---the book lay open on his lap, but he was staring at the floor with a serious, pensive expression on his face. It may not be me, Prouvaire thought, but something truly is bothering him. Driven by another of those inarticulate impulses, he pulled himself up onto the arm of the divan on his elbow. He leaned towards Combeferre and said “Er…”

Combeferre started and turned towards him. “Yes?” he said, pushing his spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose.

“I, ah, I don’t mean to pry,” Prouvaire said diffidently, “and you don’t---I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, that really is fine, it’s your business, but it is only, you know, you looked unhappy, so I thought, I don’t know, maybe, is there anything I can do? To help, or make you feel better---” He cut himself off there, knowing he was babbling. He felt his face grow warm as Combeferre’s assumed an expression he had not seen before, a curious softness of the eyes accompanied by a faint, gentle curving of the mouth. Suddenly abashed, Prouvaire dropped his head like a child. “Anyway,” he said.

Long, sturdy fingers gently tilted his chin back up, then retreated. Combeferre was regarding him thoughtfully, from a disconcertingly close vantage point. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated. “It’s nice to have you here,” he said finally. Prouvaire thought, I don’t know what you started out to say, but I’ll wager that wasn’t it.

“It’s nice to be here,” he replied anyway, feeling an obscure need to make conversation. “I like your rooms. I like ransacking your bookshelves and investigating your minerals and moths and such. And---” he felt his breath catch oddly. “I like the company I find here very much. Very much, actually.” He fought the urge to look away again.

Combeferre was looking pensive once more, but he did not appear unhappy. “Well,” he said slowly, “I am honored. Thank you.” He tilted his head a bit, as though Prouvaire were a curious specimen which he was examining. His hair fell softly over his forehead, shining in the lamplight. His eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles were large and luminous and solemn. Prouvaire thought, I could look at him like this forever. Without even thinking about it, he leaned forward and kissed him. For a moment, he thought that Combeferre would pull away, but then his hand came up to cradle the back of Prouvaire’s head as he leaned into the kiss.

They broke for air. Combeferre’s hand gently slid downwards to curl around the back of Prouvaire’s neck, eliciting a shiver from him. He smiled into Combeferre’s eyes and said, “Yes, _very_ much.”

Combeferre dropped his head. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. _“You,”_ he said. “Me,” Prouvaire agreed happily.

Combeferre looked up again, laughter fading. He took his hand away and sat back in his chair, biting at his thumbnail absently. He said, “Jehan.” Prouvaire blinked. Combeferre was not generally given to the use of nicknames. “Have you thought about this, or are you just moving on impulse?”

Intellectually, Prouvaire supposed it was a fair question, given his tendency to spontaneity and the fact that this was all new ground. Nonetheless, it made him flinch. He said hesitantly, “I…I don’t know…it felt right, and I…” He cast about for the words to explain himself. “I think…I think I have wanted to do that for a long time. Only I didn’t know it, or didn’t understand it. It’s as if…as if something fell into its proper place…” He trailed off, frustrated at his inability to translate his own meaning properly. I am ordinarily very good at articulating myself, he thought, why do my faculties desert me.

Combeferre was frowning slightly; Prouvaire interpreted the expression as disapproval, and was taken aback by the stab of pain it generated. He felt hot tears rise in his eyes in response and curled in on himself a little, turning his face away from Combeferre and twisting his hands together in his lap. He heard Combeferre exhale sharply through his nose and push his chair back a bit, and then he was on the divan beside Prouvaire, laying a hand on his arm. “Jehan,” he said again, gently.

“I’m sorry,” Prouvaire muttered.

“No.” Combeferre embraced him, very carefully, and a little awkwardly. “No, Jehan, don’t…” He broke off and dropped a light kiss on Prouvaire’s temple. Prouvaire leaned his forehead into Combeferre’s shoulder. “Have _you_ thought about this,” he whispered, “is that what you were thinking about earlier, that made you uneasy?”

“Well,” said Combeferre. He did not elaborate, but he tightened his hold on Prouvaire slightly.

Prouvaire took this for an affirmation. He felt an upwelling of tenderness in his soul, almost more than he could bear. Lightheaded with it, he wrapped his own arms around Combeferre’s waist and pressed his face into the soft fabric of his loosely tied cravat. He felt Combeferre bring one hand up to pet his hair, then push his collar down to stroke the back of his neck, feather-light. The sensation sent another shiver down Prouvaire’s spine and he turned his head slightly to press his lips against the side of Combeferre’s throat. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, and, encouraged by this, pulled back a bit so that he could hook one arm around Combeferre’s neck and kiss his mouth again.

Combeferre matched his enthusiasm, pulling Prouvaire as close as he could; in fact, he pulled him in a little too tightly, causing Prouvaire to overbalance and knock Combeferre over onto his back, falling atop him in an ungraceful tangle. Both lay startled for a moment, then they began to laugh. Prouvaire’s left arm was pinned between Combeferre and the divan. They were pressed so tightly together that Prouvaire could feel Combeferre’s every breath, the shaking of his laughter, the hard edge of his hipbone under Prouvaire’s own. He swallowed and raised his free hand to softly run a single fingertip along the smooth curve of Combeferre’s cheekbone, to trace the delicate outline of his mouth. Combeferre looked up at him earnestly. He turned his head a little to kiss Prouvaire’s fingers, then smiled warmly at him. Prouvaire’s breath caught almost painfully in his throat. He thought, You are the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen or will see.

Later, they lay in bed together, Prouvaire’s head resting on Combeferre’s shoulder. Idly, he traced small circles on Combeferre’s arm with a fingertip, watching the shadow on the wall echo his movement. He wondered lazily whether such a state of perfect contentment could be considered an example of the sublime. There was nothing grand or crashing or dramatic about it, but his whole being seemed to be quietly vibrating with a subtle and pervasive joy that he could not recall ever experiencing before. His soul was brimming with Combeferre like a glass of water filled to the absolute edge, to the point where one more drop would send the rest pouring out in a torrent. Prouvaire let his hand rest on Combeferre’s bicep. He half-shut his eyes, breathing slowly to try and contain himself.

Combeferre, holding Prouvaire close, pressed his cheek against the top of his head. This was the last drop needed to cause an overflow. Prouvaire flopped over onto his stomach and furiously pressed his lips against Combeferre’s, burrowing one hand under his head and gripping his shoulder with the other.

“You have entirely too much energy,” Combeferre informed him when they broke off. His eyes seemed wider than usual now that his spectacles lay on the table by the bed, rather than sitting on his nose. Probably they were having to work harder to see, Prouvaire thought. He rather liked the effect of surprised guilelessness it created. “I have precisely the necessary amount of energy, actually,” he said.

“Didn’t you burn any off just now?”

“No,” Prouvaire lied. He _was_ rather tired now that he thought about it, but he didn’t want to go to sleep. He wanted to stay awake so he could look at and talk to and touch Combeferre.

Combeferre chuckled. _“You,”_ he said fondly. Then, “Oh…it occurs to me. It’s rather a cold night---let me fetch a couple of nightshirts before…”

“No nightshirts,” Prouvaire stated firmly, depositing a kiss on Combeferre’s bare chest.

“You are impossible.” Combeferre pulled Prouvaire down next to him. “Lie quietly for a bit, won’t you? I’m tired, even if you are not.”

“Oh very well,” Prouvaire said, draping himself half over top of Combeferre and pressing his face into his shoulder. Combeferre turned his head and lightly kissed Prouvaire’s forehead.

“Good night,” he said.

 _Good,_ thought Prouvaire, beginning to relax into drowsiness, was not quite sufficient a descriptor. _Marvelous_ might do better, or _lovely,_ or _enchanting,_ or…and before he could continue listing preferable adjectives, he was asleep.


	2. Combeferre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally planned to be a one-shot, but I felt like it was somewhat awkward to have the perspective shift in there like that so I cut it in half and here is the second half!

Combeferre opened his eyes to the clean white light of a cloudy winter morning, filtering in through his bedroom curtains. His face was cold. He was fairly sure, squinting across the room, that the fire had nearly or entirely gone out during the night. There was, however, a warmth at his back, which, now recollecting the events of the previous evening--- _all_ of the events of the previous evening---he carefully turned over to look at.

Prouvaire made a small sound and twitched slightly in his sleep. Serenity lay like a blanket over his fine-featured face, giving him an air of innocence which brought a peculiar tightness to Combeferre’s chest. I love him, he thought, and then, I am in love with him. He wanted to curl his body entirely around Prouvaire, to hold him like a little bird cupped in his hands, to go out and collect all the lovely and splendid gifts of nature and make a heap of them in front of him. One thought of the natural world, somehow, in connection with Prouvaire. Despite the rather absurd Romantic fashions he tended to affect, he had always seemed to Combeferre to be very much a child of nature.

Combeferre leaned over and lightly touched his lips to Prouvaire’s forehead. He had not intended to wake him, but Prouvaire’s eyes blinked slowly open. He regarded Combeferre hazily for a moment, then wriggled forward to slide an arm over Combeferre’s waist and bury his face in his chest without a word.

“Good morning,” Combeferre said, gently stroking Prouvaire’s hair. Prouvaire responded only with a significant tightening of the arm. Combeferre was appreciative of this, but also found it slightly difficult to breathe. He expressed this to Prouvaire, who sighed dramatically but loosened his hold, inching slightly backwards to gaze up at Combeferre solemnly. “This is the nicest waking-up I ever had,” he said.

“That’s good,” said Combeferre, and felt immediately the inanity of his response. It was difficult to marshal much eloquence when all of his senses were taken up with an acute awareness of Prouvaire’s immediate proximity to himself. _Unclothed_ Prouvaire’s immediate proximity to himself. He felt his face flushing, but Prouvaire did not appear concerned with either Combeferre’s current lack of conversational skills or their respective states of nudity beneath the blankets. He was gazing meditatively at Combeferre as though he were stocking up on mental images. His hand still rested lightly on Combeferre’s waist. Combeferre could no more have moved under that soft pressure than he could have pulled apart a pair of Magdeburg hemispheres with his bare hands.

Prouvaire bit his lip thoughtfully. “Do you know,” he said, “last night, when I was looking at you on the divan, I thought that you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen or would see in this life.” Combeferre, who had no real quarrel with his own face, but had always considered himself a rather average looking man, grinned in affectionate, mildly self-deprecating amusement. “That is a wild exaggeration of my charms,” he said.

“It is not. I am going to write a sonnet to the blueness of your eyes and make you listen to me read it.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“No, I’m going to do it.” Prouvaire lightly touched his lips to Combeferre’s cheek, to his temple, to the corner of his jaw. “But it is not just your appearance, you know. Your patience, your intelligence, your curiosity would make you beautiful even if you did not have an exceptionally attractive face. But the fact is, you _do._ ”

Combeferre found himself unexpectedly moved by this earnestness. He had believed himself well accustomed to Prouvaire’s habit of coming out with statements that most people might feel a bit self-conscious saying aloud. It seemed that he could still be set back on his heels by it. Perhaps the effect was heightened by its being aimed directly at himself. Or the fact that they had been awake less than twenty minutes, lovers (lovers?) perhaps less than twelve hours, and already Prouvaire seemed to be fully acclimated to both situations while he, Combeferre, was still trying to get his mind around everything.

Prouvaire seemed to be waiting for some kind of response. Combeferre dropped his eyes and studied the sheets while he considered what he could possibly say. Given time, he was sure, he could produce sentiments equally lovely, but everything that came to mind at the moment seemed foolish. Improvisation was not his strong suit in the realm of personal feeling. Perhaps, he thought, if I had half an hour and a fresh sheet of paper to write a composition on all of the admirable qualities he possesses…

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Prouvaire shifted his hand from Combeferre’s waist to his shoulder and gently knocked his forehead against Combeferre’s. “It is only, I think of things sometimes and they _must_ be said, after all.” His lashes were lowered, obscuring his eyes. Combeferre could have counted every freckle on his nose. He felt himself stop breathing for a moment.

“I love you,” he said, without thinking about it. Prouvaire’s lashes flew up and he leaned back a little, staring into Combeferre’s eyes. Combeferre wished he wouldn’t; his face began to burn, as his brain caught up with his mouth.

“Do you really?” Prouvaire inquired with delighted eagerness. His eyes were very bright. Combeferre swallowed.

“I do,” he said. “I have. For a while now, I think.” Then, because it was suddenly too much, displaying their emotions to each other with eyes wide open like cloth vendors spreading silks and muslins on a table, he leaned down the scant few inches between them and kissed him, trying to express with the kiss the sentiments for which he could not find words. Prouvaire wrapped all of his limbs around Combeferre and kissed back, fiercely.

After the inevitable repetition of the previous night’s more gymnastic endeavors, Prouvaire draped himself bodily over Combeferre, petting his hair fondly. Combeferre, however, was beginning to feel as though a bit of breakfast might be in order, and said as much. 

"Man does not live by bread alone,” Prouvaire protested, clinging.

"That is taken profoundly out of context, and man does not live by kissing _et cetera_ alone, either. He would soon find his health affected if he tried,” Combeferre remonstrated, gently disentangling himself.

Morning ablutions being performed and clothes being resumed against the cold, Combeferre headed for the stove in the other room to get some heat going. Prouvaire lingered a little in the bedroom, emerging to announce, “I have surveyed the street from your window and a veritable wasteland met my eye. Not a soul was to be seen, unless one counts the wind, which I suppose one very well might from a certain perspective. As deeply buried as the world looks to be, I suppose it’s anyone’s guess when we might be dug out. Isn’t it exciting?”

“One cannot _see_ the wind,” Combeferre mumbled distractedly, feeding tinder into the small blaze he had built up in the stove’s interior, “and I fear that being snowed in may become considerably less exciting if the situation persists long enough that the amenities here begin to run short.” The fire had reached a point where he felt confident of it, and he shut the stove door with a clang.

“One can see the flurries the wind kicks up, and by that means track its progression down the street,” Prouvaire argued, following Combeferre to the cupboard like a puppy, “and that is close enough. Shall I cut bread, or something?”

“Yes, please.” Combeferre handed him the loaf and a knife, and rummaged further in his food stores. He was glad that he had gone shopping the day before; there was certainly enough to last a couple of days at least. He expected that the firewood would last at least that long as well, though he hoped that the streets would be cleared and everything back to normal before they would have to worry about rationing. The pump belonging to the building might freeze, if they were unlucky, but in such a case they could collect snow from outdoors to melt. It would not be especially clean, probably, but perhaps they could strain it somehow. Combeferre sketched out a diagram for a possible snowmelt-strainer in his mind, then realized that Prouvaire had finished cutting the bread and was waiting for him. Hastily he got out the butter and some cheese and set them on the table.

Prouvaire attacked his portion of the breakfast with vigor, belying his earlier protests about not living by bread alone. Perhaps, Combeferre thought, making inroads on his own half, he has channeled all of his energy into hunger. Perhaps that was the key to Prouvaire, to his inner self: that tendency or ability to powerfully focus on one thing only and maintain that focus until he chose to shift it. Combeferre himself was only capable of it intermittently, finding himself sometimes stranded between a number of things, with all of which he wished to involve himself at once. It took effort for him to be single-minded, whereas Prouvaire seemed to exist in that state by nature. He wondered if it was a more restful, or at any rate a less stressful, way to be. The trouble was that there were so very many things in the world that Combeferre wanted to know and to do and to study, to integrate them into his own mind and make them a part of himself. Among them…

He realized he was staring at Prouvaire, who was looking quizzically back at him, and quickly looked down at his plate, brushing the crumbs into a small pile together with his finger. It wasn’t good manners, but he felt fidgety, suddenly and acutely aware of the weight of many potential future mornings, of the impact all of this might have upon their relationship which had hitherto been so simple and straightforward, of the numerous little things that could go well or could go wrong between them. Abruptly he rose from the table, feeling the need to be _doing_ something, and began clearing away the dishes.

Prouvaire had stood when Combeferre did, and from the corner of his eye Combeferre could see him stowing the remains of the food away in the cupboard as he himself settled the plates and knife in the dishpan with the dishes from the previous night (he would have to see to them before lunch, he told himself.) He took a step back towards the table, thinking to check the overall breadcrumb situation, but moved no further as Prouvaire came up and gently embraced him from behind.

“Don’t be anxious,” Prouvaire said softly, “it is only me, you know.” He touched his lips to the side of Combeferre’s head, then leaned his chin on his shoulder. Combeferre felt himself grow calmer at the words and the touch and shut his eyes momentarily, bringing up his hand to clasp one of Prouvaire’s against his chest. Prouvaire reads me as easily as a book, he thought, he was doing it last night too. The thought of being so thoroughly known by Prouvaire was peculiarly comforting, though from most people it would have made him uneasy.

They stood together for a moment, then Prouvaire released Combeferre and made his way over to the divan, where he seated himself and took up again the novel he had been reading the night before. Combeferre went to the window and inspected the view of drifted snow in the street. It was much the same, he presumed, as that from the bedroom, upon which Prouvaire had reported earlier, though there were a couple of hardy people fighting their way through on the other side of the street. Combeferre wished them good fortune in their endeavors.

“This is a sad and barren divan,” Prouvaire declared from across the room, “desolate in its lack of companionship and affection.” He directed a meaningful look at Combeferre, who could not help laughing. “If only,” Prouvaire continued, nothing daunted, “there were some means of ameliorating the situation. Somehow.”

 _“You,”_ Combeferre said, grinning. He walked over to the corner, picked up the previous night’s geological treatise off his chair, and lightly rapped Prouvaire on the head with it before sitting down next to him. Prouvaire tucked himself comfortably against Combeferre’s side and dove back into his novel with a happy sigh.

Combeferre himself was soon back in the world of minerals. He was conscious, behind the part of his mind that was occupied with learning about the formation of crystals, of an overwhelming sense of peace and well-being settling over him. Perhaps the only changes to their Saturdays would be good and pleasant ones. Perhaps, Combeferre thought almost without words, it was inevitable that they had come together like this, inevitable that they should continue growing closer as their lives proceeded forward. It was a profoundly delightful thought.

Outside, the world was cold and buried. Inside, the fire in the stove popped and the divan was cozy. Combeferre settled himself a little more snugly against Prouvaire and gave himself up to geology and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magdeburg spheres were an early experiment with vacuum. The two halves would be placed together and the air pumped out of the space between them, then a demonstration of the force of the resulting vacuum would be made, e.g. horses would be hitched to the two halves and shown incapable of pulling them apart.


End file.
